


Permanency

by tastewithouttalent



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Obsession, Orgasm Delay, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:12:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fushimi isn’t sure Yata’s going to pick up the phone." Fushimi calls Yata and revels in retrospection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Permanency

Fushimi isn’t sure Yata’s going to pick up the phone. He’s not expecting an answer right away, at least; he’s skilled enough at burning bridges to recognize the implications in the embers. But it rings, and rings, and rings, and then there’s a click that startles Fushimi more badly than silence would before Yata’s voice growls down the line, “ _Saru_.”

“You  _answered_ ,” Fushimi purrs, letting all his surprised pleasure roll warm and rich through his words. “I didn’t think you’d pick up for me, Misaki.”

“Don’t call me by my first name,” Yata hisses, but he’s not hanging up, Fushimi can hear him breathing.

“Are you busy?” he asks. It’s easy to keep his mind on what he’s saying, easy to let his free hand trace a familiar path across the edge of his shirt and over his collarbone to rub against the old scar on his shoulder. It feels hot under his fingers, like it always does, as if there’s some unfettered fire lingering just under the skin.

“I’ve got things to do,” Yata declares. “I’m not a slacker like you are.”

“Are you going to hang up on me?” Fushimi prompts, and then, because he can’t stand to leave the taunt unoffered, “Mi-sa-ki?”

There’s a wordless growl from the other end of the line, but even incoherency is still sound, still a connection to Yata. Fushimi laughs without bothering to rein in the mania under it. His fingers slide down to the top button of his shirt, work the attachment free of the cloth so he can come down another inch and start on the next one. He’s breathing harder, he can feel the air burning when he inhales in out-of-time with the sound of Yata’s irritation on the other end of the line.

“You won’t,” he says, sure now in the pause. He tenses his fingers, scrapes pain over his chest as his shirt comes open. The flare of sensation catches his breath, makes the next words come out as a moan. “You  _won’t_  hang up on me, you care too much.”

“You’re the one who won’t leave me alone,  _Saru_ ,” Yata protests. Fushimi can hear the huff in his voice, can imagine the irritation tense across his forehead and set in against his shoulders. When his nails scrape down over his hip, just under the waistband of his pants, he imagines it’s Yata’s hand instead of his own.

“You picked up the phone,” Fushimi points out. He rocks his hips up against the pressure of his own hand as he catches the button of his slacks with his thumb, slides it free with agonizing slowness.

“You would have just kept calling.”

“Ah,  _Misaki_.” Fushimi’s pants come open, the touch of fingers is Yata’s behind his eyelids. “You know me so well.”

“Not as well as I thought I did,” Yata says. “I didn’t think you were going to turn traitor.”

“That would have ruined the surprise,” Fushimi points out. His fingers close around his length, he draws a deliberately slow stroke over himself. “You know me better than anyone, Misaki, if you couldn’t figure it out no one could have.”

“I don’t want to know you.” Yata’s words are strained, harsh and rough with the emotion Fushimi has always lacked on his own. “You ruined everything.”

“Mm,” Fushimi purrs. His blood is going hot, rising as much to the raw emotion in Yata’s voice as to the friction of his fingers on his length. “I betrayed everything, Misaki, the clan and our relationship and  _you_.” The words come out as a moan, like he’s describing what he wants Yata to do to him instead of what he himself has already done to the other.

“How  _could_  you?” Yata demands. Fushimi’s heard this before, the futile demands for an explanation that doesn’t exist, the need for a reason beyond the one he has already given. He can let the words wash over him, blister his imagination like the fire Yata’s always burning with while his skin flushes hot with waves of physical pleasure to match the psychological agony. “I trusted you, we  _all_  trusted you. We were a  _family_ , Saru, how could you  _turn_  on us?”

“There has to be a black sheep in any family, Misaki,” Fushimi laughs. He’s rocking up to match the motion of his hand, jerking over himself hard and fast and rough, he can feel the tension of impending satisfaction curling tight along his spine and flaring hot low in his stomach.

“We  _loved_  you,” Yata says. He really does sound like he’s crying, now. “Why wasn’t that  _enough_?”

“Love can fade,” Fushimi gasps. His thoughts are going hazy, flaring out into incoherency as he grasps at them. It won’t be long, now. “I want  _permanency_.” There, it’s coming, the idea of Yata’s fingers jerking over him is enough. “I want it to  _hurt_.” The heat under his skin draws tight, arches his hips up off the bed and pulses in expectation through his veins...and he closes his fingers hard around the base of his cock, sucks in a breath so desperate it’s almost a wail as his whole body shakes with the desire to come, the aborted expectation thrumming through every muscle of his body.

Yata makes a sound that’s supposed to be a huff and sounds a little bit more like a whimper. That’s almost too much, the pain in his voice loud in Fushimi’s ear, almost enough to overcome the pressure of his fingers holding back his orgasm, but he tightens his grip, and shudders a pained exhale, and  _waits_.

“You’re insane,” Yata says. Fushimi can imagine the tears standing in his eyes, not quite falling but called up by the pain of memories, the pain  _he_  caused in the other. He whines, softly, loud enough for Yata to hear but not enough to interrupt him. He knows what’s about to happen. The understanding between them isn’t one-sided, after all.

“I  _hate_  you,” Yata growls, and Fushimi lets his hold go, brings his hand up to dig his nails into the scar on his shoulder as his body convulses through the nearly-painful relief of his held-back orgasm. His fingers flare hot like they always do, hot enough to feel even against the damaged skin, and he groans, “ _Misaki_ ,” the syllables shaking with the agonized pleasure tearing through him.

“I told you not to  _call_  me that,” Yata is saying while Fushimi opens his eyes, blinks his vision back into focus on the ceiling. “You don’t have that  _right_.”

“How are you going to make me stop?” Fushimi asks, breathing starting to steady again as the heat of arousal starts to fade from his blood. “Are you going to tear out my tongue, Misaki?” His throat purrs it into a suggestion, the fading warmth of his skin dragging the sound low and desperate in his throat. Yata makes a disgusted sound and Fushimi starts laughing, physical relief tangling with the mental pleasure of Yata’s frustration.

He’s still laughing when Yata hangs up on him and the line goes dead.


End file.
